


before our voices gave out, and our limbs gave in

by svitzian



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Bounty Hunters, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Hurt/Comfort, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, On the Run, Padawan Braids, Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, Protective Satine Kryze, Satine Kryze Needs a Hug, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26832598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svitzian/pseuds/svitzian
Summary: An encounter with some bounty hunters after the Duchess goes rather badly.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Satine Kryze, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi & Satine Kryze, Qui-Gon Jinn & Satine Kryze
Comments: 10
Kudos: 90





	before our voices gave out, and our limbs gave in

**Author's Note:**

> hahahahaHA!!! i thought i wouldn't have anything for this whumptober prompt, but then i went to bed and immediately thought of this and ta-da! more obi-wan pain for everyone!!!! and i got to challenge myself to write from satine's perspective as well  
> this is, technically, for day 3 of whumptober-- i focused pretty much on 'forced to their knees' and this kinda went off the rails from there, though of course, manhandled could probably also apply.  
> happy ending because i am currently incapable of writing anything less <3 <3 <3  
> hope you enjoy!!!!

When they shove Satine to her knees on the cold, duracrete floor, she does not make a sound, and she does not wince. She did not wince when they’d first grabbed her, when they’d roughly cuffed her hands behind her back, or when they’d shoved her on board this filthy bounty-hunter’s ship. She did not wince through all the ugly comments they’d made, speaking about what a bounty she’ll win them, how it’s a shame those Mandalorians wanted her _unharmed,_ even though it’s probably only so that they could do all the damage to her themselves. She does not wince, because she is Mandalorian, she is strong, and she will _not_ give these _bounty hunters_ the satisfaction.

When Obi-Wan is shoved to her knees in front of her, though, and a hand in her loose hair forces her head up, forces her to _watch—_ then, it is as though all of her resolve disappears. She winces, shamefully and _selfishly_ glad that the attention of these bounty hunters is now on Obi-Wan, that none of them have seen her lapse in strength.

She doesn’t feel glad for long.

The hand in her hair tightens, wrenching her head just a bit higher, her eyes _up,_ forcing them to be level with Obi-Wan’s—and Obi-Wan, stars, Obi-Wan is kneeling before another one of these _awful_ bounty hunters. The apparent leader of their crew—a female humanoid, taller and bulkier than herself or Obi-Wan—stands between the two of them, just to the side enough that Satine can see Obi-Wan’s face.

“Let’s get to business,” she says, her voice low and dripping with a dryness that’s almost _bored._ Satine grits her teeth, and were her hands not uncomfortably bound behind her back, she might have abandoned a few of her pacifist ideals the moment she watches the woman reach out a long, elegant finger, tipping Obi-Wan’s chin up. Satine watches him meet her eyes, his gaze strong and unyielding and _brave,_ and though part of her wants to be terrified right now—well, it’s hard not to feel her own swell of courage at the way he stares her down, unbothered by the fact that he is grossly unarmed, his lightsaber long since stripped from his side.

Perhaps more concerning than the lack of his lightsaber, though, is what Satine is coming to suspect by the way she’d seen Obi-Wan’s eyes _dim_ just slightly when they’d snapped those cuffs around his wrists, bulkier than the ones around her own. Obi-Wan can fight without a lightsaber, but without the Force…

_Qui-Gon will be here soon,_ she thinks, and tries not to think any more on how powerless Obi-Wan currently is. By the looks of it, _he’s_ certainly not thinking about it.

He glares levelly at the bounty hunter, and from the small portion of the woman’s face Satine is able to see, she can make out a smirk as she raises the fingers that had tipped up Obi-Wan’s chin, letting them rest on his cheek instead.

“Tell me where the other one is,” she whispers, voice low, eyes stuck on Obi-Wan’s, “and I promise we’ll be gentle.”

Any promise from a bounty hunter is a meaningless one, a promise of _gentleness_ even more so. Satine knows that, and she knows Obi-Wan does, too—and even if he didn’t, Satine knows he would die before he told this bunch anything about Qui-Gon’s whereabouts. He holds the woman’s gaze, and while he’s still silent, his eye burn with an intensity Satine has rarely seen.

The message is clear, and the woman sighs. “Very well.”

Her hand raises so quickly that Satine has little time to process the movement, and then— _then,_ there’s a sickening noise as it comes down on Obi-Wan’s cheek, where her fingers had so delicately rested before. Suddenly, it feels harder to breathe, and that courage she’d been so certain of before is shaken.

_Qui-Gon,_ she thinks again, wondering if somehow, the Force will let him hear her. _Please, hurry up._

For how horrible that hit had sounded, Obi-Wan hadn’t made a noise in response, not even so much as a grunt. Instead, he snapped his gaze, defiant as ever, back to the bounty hunter, that smirk on her lips even uglier now. It will take more than one hit to break him, Satine knows—and after that thought, she immediately prays that she will never, _ever_ find out just how many it will take.

“Cute,” the woman murmurs, and her hand is reaching out again, just as delicately as before, this time towards Obi-Wan’s braid. Satine doesn’t know what species she is, exactly, but her nails are long, and they trail the length of the braid as though in consideration. Ugly emotion rises up in Satine’s chest—anger at the fact that she’s just _hit_ him, yes, but also a misplaced possessiveness, because she knows what that braid means to Obi-Wan, and _Satine_ is the only one allowed to tease him for it, to tug at it when he’s being purposefully dense, and this woman, this _bounty hunter,_ has _no right—_

Obi-Wan does not flinch, and his gaze does not fall from the woman’s eyes, still shining with that foolish stubbornness Satine so loves, and the sight of it is the only thing to keep her from descending further into her anger, mindful of that curious little mantra Obi-Wan had shared with her once. _Anger leads to hate._

For Obi-Wan’s sake, for love of him, she clamps down on her anger before it can grow beyond itself.

“I’ve heard this,” the woman says dryly, tucking Obi-Wan’s braid back behind his ear with mock tenderness, and Satine forces herself not to think of all the times she herself has done such a thing, “is the mark of a student.”

Satine knows her words to be true. Obi-Wan had told her a long time ago what the braid signified, how he’d worn it for years now, how each band meant a certain accomplishment, a specific achievement. How when he was knighted, Qui-Gon would cut the braid with his lightsaber, and how Obi-Wan planned to do as so many other padawans did, and gift it back to his master as a show of his respect, his gratitude for the years Qui-Gon had devoted to teaching him.

Obi-Wan does not twitch, nor does he speak. The bounty hunter, seemingly tired of drawing out her taunts, narrows her gaze—and then, _again_ too fast for Satine to make out the motion, the hand that had been at his braid is suddenly gripping his chin tightly, wrenching his head back at an unnatural angle.

“If you are a student,” she begins, tightening her grip in a manner that makes _Satine_ want to wince, her nails pressing into the flesh of Obi-Wan’s face, “ _where_ is your teacher?”

Obi-Wan’s chest rises visibly, in a manner Satine has seen hundreds of times before, the deep inhale of meditation for when he wishes to clear his mind. He breathes, eyes still focused entirely on the bounty hunter—and then, around the grip she has on his chin, he smiles that disarming smile of his, and despite herself, despite their circumstances, Satine feels a swell of pride in her chest.

That’s her Obi-Wan.

Evidently, it’s not the response the bounty hunter was expecting. She lets go, and steps back as though disgusted—and it’s then that the Zabrak holding Satine by the hair chooses to speak, once more pulling her head up uncomfortably.

“You’re not gonna get anything outta that one, boss,” he says, curtly enough to make the lead hunter turn and quirk a silvery eyebrow towards him. “He’s a Jedi. But this one’ll probably spill.”

Satine grits her teeth, _hard,_ willing back her focus, deciding to stare straight ahead rather than meet the woman’s gaze as it falls to Satine, considering—and then, when she catches a glimpse of Obi-Wan, meets his eyes for the first time since they’d been outnumbered, she instantly regrets it.

His mask hasn’t slipped much, but Satine _knows_ him, and where the others might miss the sudden trickle of fear in his eyes… she doesn’t. Obi-Wan can take as much pain as these bounty hunters will dish out and not say a word, but if their attention turns towards her…

Suddenly, she doesn’t feel so confident that he will keep his mouth shut.

“Tempting,” the bounty hunter mutters dryly, taking a step closer. Satine doesn’t hesitate to meet her eyes, hoping to show Obi-Wan that she, too, can be brave, that he needn’t be concerned for her, she can take as much as he had—and in the end, it’s far easier than she’d expected to gaze at this woman with all the vitriol in the galaxy shining in her eyes.

The bounty hunter _tsk_ s down at her. “Unfortunately, our little _Duchess_ isn’t to be harmed. You heard the conditions.”

It’s horrible, and selfish, but Satine feels a small burst of relief, followed quickly by wrenching guilt. She doesn’t want to be hurt, because _who would—_ but if it could take their attention away from Obi-Wan, could keep the heat off of him…

“Could tell ‘em we found her like that,” the hunter holding Satine objects, and she bites her tongue. “Wouldn’t be any _permanent_ damage, anyways.”

Something in the lead bounty hunter seems to snap, as though her patience has run out—and it shows. “You want to earn this bounty, Jal, or you want those Mandalorians to place one on you, too?” Satine sees a flash of her pointed teeth as she snarls, and she’s glad the bounty hunter is focused on her crewmate now, and not her. “This isn’t some _game._ Not this bounty. _That’s_ why we’re not leaving until the other Jedi’s dealt with.”

It should be frightening, thinking of what these bounty hunters will do to Qui-Gon. Instead, Satine feels a rush of relief—they’re not leaving until they find Qui-Gon, and if there’s anyone who can get her and Obi-Wan out of this mess, she knows it’s him.

He’ll get them out. He has to.

Unfortunately, the reminder of the _other_ Jedi has the lead hunter turning back to Obi-Wan, no doubt to question him again, hurt him more, only her rage seems to have quieted into a bone-chilling calm that even Satine, for all she prides herself on her strength, isn’t immune to. She watches Obi-Wan for a moment, then looks back over her shoulder at Satine—and with her stomach dropping low, Satine realizes that she very much does _not_ like where this is going.

“Unless,” she says, slow and almost amused, “we won’t have to hurt her after all.”

Realization dawns—the exact realization Satine was _hoping_ she would not have to face. It’s a miracle that she keeps her lips pressed together and fire in her eyes, that she keeps up the façade of a challenge, even when already, she feels her resolve starting to crumble.

“Hold her tightly, Jal,” the lead hunter commands, her voice devoid of any emotion beyond a sickly trickle of pleasure. The one holding her obeys, forcing her head up, pulling at her hair so tightly that her eyes tear up, but she gives them no satisfaction at all, biting her tongue hard to keep from any noise slipping away while the woman turns back to Obi-Wan—

_Obi-Wan,_ who meets her gaze once more, too much conveyed in that one look for her to ever understand. It’s a plea, a plea to stay strong, to stay silent, and _permission,_ permission for her to _let_ them hurt him when she knows she can stop it. It’s too much, _far_ too much, and she’d always known him to be self-sacrificing, but _this,_ this is on a new level, and she can’t simply _watch—_

And yet _watching_ is all she does as the woman turns to Obi-Wan again, back at his side in a few short strides, reaching out her hand to Obi-Wan’s braid and _pulling_ hard enough that it doesn’t just tilt his head, but _all_ of him. He’s tilting over from where they’ve forced him onto his knees, awkwardly moving his arms to try and stop his fall, but they’re bound behind his back and there’s nothing he can do, nothing _Satine_ can do but watch him fall, ignoring the awful sound of his _head_ hitting the duracrete.

_It’s alright. It will be alright. Qui-Gon will be here soon._

If she says it enough times, she’ll convince herself of it.

“Eyes open,” the hunter snaps, though Satine hasn’t _closed_ her eyes, no matter how tempting it had been, and the hunter hasn’t turned around long enough to catch her, even if she had done it—“Or else.”

_Or else what,_ Satine doesn’t have time to think, because the hunter’s drawn her foot back, no _, no—_

The kick lands squarely in the middle of Obi-Wan’s abdomen. The noise of it is sickening, but not nearly as bad as hearing the gasped inhale Obi-Wan manages. His eyes are shut tight, such a departure from the way he’d glared bravely at the bounty hunter just minutes earlier, almost as though he’s bracing for another kick.

No, not almost. He _is_ bracing for another kick—but the kick doesn’t come, because the bounty hunter is glancing over her shoulder at Satine again, this time with a smile.

“Anything to say?”

Satine wants to launch herself at the woman. Satine wants to do a number of things that would make it impossible for her to ever call herself a _pacifist_ again. To hurt someone like that, to be so cruel to another being _fills_ her with a burning rage, one that eats its way up from her stomach, claws at her chest, tears up her throat—

_Anger leads to hate,_ she thinks, and swallows down the nasty words that are resting, ready, on the tip of her tongue. She does like Obi-Wan would, and sets her jaw, lifts her eyes, and _glares._

The woman shrugs. “Have it your way.” Then she pulls back her foot again.

This time, when the kick lands in the very same spot as before, Obi-Wan cannot help a cry, his bound arms straining behind his back in a useless attempt to break his bonds, to shield himself from the onslaught. All he gets for his troubles is another kick. And another.

The watching is horrible. Satine sees it all, every shaking inhale as Obi-Wan tries, no doubt, to ignore the pain, to center himself, the way pain twists his features even despite what is certainly a grand effort to remain as unreadable as ever, every single flinch reminding her of one thing, the only thing that mattered.

Obi-Wan was hurting, and Satine could stop it.

But Satine _couldn’t_ stop it.

Eventually, she loses count of how many kicks it’s been, but it’s enough for Obi-Wan to cry with each one, now. Some have come at his face, rather than his stomach, and the _sight_ of him, swollen and bloodied already, his nose at such an unnatural angle…

Satine blinks away the tears that form. She will not allow anyone to see them. She will _not_ allow them to fall. The bounty hunter has stopped turning to look at her, stopped asking her, over and over again, _where’s the other one,_ stopped giving Obi-Wan even that brief respite—but Satine will not allow herself to cry, all the same.

Obi-Wan does not open his eyes again, and Satine is glad. If she were to see him, to _truly_ see him and his pain—she would shatter, and there would be no stopping it.

Like this, she can hold on—but _this_ does not last forever, as the bounty hunter lands one last ferocious kick, uttering a clearly displeased grunt along with it, and then her hands are reaching out, pulling Obi-Wan harshly back to his knees and reaching for something at her belt, something Satine can’t quite see but she can _hear_ , a faint buzz, a quiet hum. The flicker of silver, a moment later, confirms it—a vibroblade.

In another encounter, another time, another place, a bounty hunter had held a similar weapon to her neck. Obi-Wan had been the one to disarm him, to wrench his arm away from her neck, to leave him lifeless in the woods, but she still has nightmares of that blade, of the hum, of the feeling of such _energy._

Now, she watches as the bounty hunter spins the very same weapon in her hand.

“We’ll go bit by bit.” Her voice gives Satine chills, and she bites her tongue again. _Do not let it show._ “See how much blood you can stand after all, Duchess.”

If that blade cuts Obi-Wan’s skin, if she sees even a _drop_ of blood beyond that which already covers his face, it will be too much for her. Qui-Gon be _damned,_ surely _he_ can handle things, but she cannot see Obi-Wan hurt like this, and Jedi or not, Satine thinks that Qui-Gon himself wouldn’t be able to endure it, either—

Only the blade doesn’t go to his skin. It goes, first, to his head, just along his hair, and Satine is thinking that perhaps she’s misunderstood, perhaps she’s not seeing correctly, her vision still a bit blurry from tears, until the bounty hunter grips the bottom of Obi-Wan’s braid and pulls once more, holding it out, the vibroblade steady against the place where the braid meets his hair, the very root of it.

Satine’s gut plummets.

If it were only hair, it wouldn’t be a big deal. Although not vain, Satine does care about her appearance—but even her hair, she would willingly have shorn off. It’s far preferable to the drawing of blood.

But it _isn’t_ just hair, not for Obi-Wan, and when his eyes finally open, only a flicker of blue visible under his swollen eyelids, she sees all the fear he’s hidden from her, hidden no longer.

That braid is _everything_ to him—his past, his present, and in many ways his future. That braid is every moment he’s spent with Qui-Gon, every accomplishment, every trial. To lose it would be to lose a piece of himself.

The hum of the vibroblade grows louder in her ears, and louder, and _louder_ , and Satine cannot allow it. She lurches herself forward as much as she is able, willing to do anything, regardless of how foolish, to save that _stupid_ braid, the one she’s spent so many hours teasing him over—

And immediately, she is pulled back, and now it is _her_ turn to cry out for how harshly the bounty hunter grips her hair, her shoulder, keeping her firmly in place while the woman beside Obi-Wan merely laughs.

“Is _that_ it?” Satine is alight with energy, now, yet the woman does not ask her the question, just as she hasn’t for some time now, only mocks her and turns back to Obi-Wan, back to his braid, the vibroblade set just against it—

“Stop!” For a moment, Satine isn’t sure that the voice she hears is even hers—but finally, the blade is lowered, and the lead hunter turns to Satine, as though waiting for her to say more.

Satine does not think. She says what the hunter will want to hear.

“I’ll tell you.”

That brings a smile to the woman’s lips, and she’s stepping away from Obi-Wan, _good._ Satine pointedly does not think of the look in Obi-Wan’s eyes as they stare intently at her, no doubt pleading for her not to do this.

_Too bad,_ she thinks. Perhaps when he is the one to watch her be tortured, he’ll get such a say.

“I’m glad we’re getting somewhere,” the woman says crisply, closing the space between them in a few steps. The vibroblade is still clutched in her hand, and she waves to the other two bounty hunters. The one holding Satine releases his grip, and she swallows, allowing herself a moment to enjoy _not_ having her hair pulled from her head while they scurry away, probably to ready the ship for takeoff, to hunt down whatever bit of information Satine provides.

And Satine… Satine will provide it, because there’s no other way.

“Now, Duchess.” Satine breathes— _breathe, just breathe, that will make it easier—_ and meets the woman’s eyes. She feels engines coming to life underneath the duracrete floor. “What do you have to say?”

Satine’s conviction, once strong, suddenly falters. _There is no other way,_ she reminds herself—yet her mouth is dry, and her heart is beating. This is it.

“I know where the other Jedi is,” she manages after a beat, eyes focused up on the other woman’s, and at the flicker of annoyance in the bounty hunter’s eyes, she manages not to flinch.

“I _know_ that,” the woman drawls, and her hands shifts. The vibroblade is very visible, now, shifting into Satine’s line of sight and drawing her gaze at the sound of that awful, awful hum—

And the surface is almost green. _Odd._ She’s never seen a blade like that.

The bounty hunter very nearly growls—or perhaps she does, given that Satine still isn’t sure _what_ species she is—but she seems to notice where Satine’s gaze has fallen, and she spins the blade tauntingly, rotating it over and over again in her hand.

“ _Tell_ me, or I’ll show you that this thing can be a lot more unpleasant than it looks.”

The blade stills—and this time, it is not green. This time, it’s tan, with a flash of something brown, in a shape almost like…

Satine blinks just once. The image she sees on the blade doesn’t change, and she is filled with an unspeakable relief.

She doesn’t dare glance up to check on the reflection—and she is glad, because a moment later, the bounty hunter is holding the blade to her neck, the buzz of its energy a familiar feeling against her skin, and speaking so angrily that her spit lands on Satine’s cheek.

“Are you _stupid?_ ” The woman grabs her by the shoulder, pulls her forward, but the threat of the vibroblade does not scare Satine, even when she _feels_ it press into her skin. Perhaps it’s drawing a bit of blood, perhaps now—but either way, it won’t matter soon. It won’t have the chance to do much worse.

“Tell me,” the woman utters out, upper lip curling, “where he is.”

Satine’s lips curl into a smile, and she meets the bounty hunter’s gaze unflinching. “You wouldn’t like it if I did.”

The bounty hunter is too angry to take it as the warning it is, and she grunts, shoving Satine back and freeing her of the vibroblade at her neck. “ _Tell me!_ ”

It’s a horrible mistake on her part, and it’s the opening Satine was hoping to gain. She leans back, knowing the drill by now— _put as much distance between yourself and the hunter as you can—_ and in the course of the movement, meets Obi-Wan’s gaze. Through the bruising and swelling, she sees his eyes shining not with fear, but hope, and a smile on his bloody lips. He’s seen it too, then, and Satine is so happy she could _cry_ with relief—

And she does. That’s just what she does, frantic, relieved, overwhelmed tears finally, _finally_ spilling from her eyes as Qui-Gon steps out into the open, the room bathed in the green glow of his already-ignited lightsaber. Satine has never seen anything so beautiful, and when the noises of chaos come, when there is shouting and a struggle, she closes her eyes, precious sobs stuck in her chest. The fighting is brief, not that Satine pays it any mind—and when the room is silent, when there’s only Qui-Gon’s heavy breathing and a few quiet whispers from where he is no doubt freeing Obi-Wan from his bindings, Satine can only smile, tears streaming down her cheeks just the same. It’s over—it’s _over,_ just like that, and somehow—

Somehow, they have lived to see another day.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! as always, kudos/comments are so very much appreciated <3  
> if you want to see me cry about star wars:  
> \- find me on twitter @G0NKDROID  
> \- or on tumblr @dotnscal !


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